


How to be brave

by stillaseeker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Happy Ending, John is a Saint, M/M, POV John Watson, Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillaseeker/pseuds/stillaseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Love is so short, but forgetting is so long - Pablo Neruda</em>
</p>
<p>Of all the places to run into his ex, it had to be at a Tesco's when he's wearing his bloody pyjamas. At three in the fucking morning.</p>
<p>(A Sherlock University AU...that has some pining!John to balance out our canon pining!Sherlock)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

::

There are things John wishes he doesn't remember.

Most of these are small things – infinitesimal enough to sweep under the dust-blanket of his subconscious, where they lie, quiescent and placid, glowing dimly in the dark. Half-forgotten things he used to know, like how Sherlock's nipples are sensitive to the cold, and the memory of their outline through the over-washed cotton of his favourite grey T-shirt. How Sherlock’s nipples are more pink than brown, their nubs peaking in the chill air every time he stumbles out, half-awake, from the bathroom after his morning shower, his towel scrunched up around his waist.

These memories are – fine. John can tuck them into a mental folder labelled _Baker Street_ , and more or less ignore their presence until something jostles them out of place. Like the swish of an expensive coat in a crowded hallway, or the cut of a model's cheekbones on some high street billboard, or someone wearing a faded T-shirt in just that shade of grey. When that happens, the memories stir, their pages pricking like paper cuts, before they subside back into their file slots, neatly tucked away.

Some are easier to ignore than others. John had been going over his old messages, looking for a reference to a paper Professor Higgleston had mentioned and Mike had texted to him, when he'd felt socked in the gut.

_Don't forget the milk. Also, buy nicotine patches. – SH_

A silly text. One that had been overlooked in the great purge, when he'd forced himself to delete every single message that Sherlock had ever sent to him, all the way back to that first one; the one that had started it all.

_221B Baker Street. 7pm. Don't be late. – SH_

It was ridiculous, _ridiculous_ , that a text message about milk, of all things, could make John feel like someone had reached into his chest and stomped his heart out. He'd had to close his eyes – there, right in the middle of the Anatomy department – and just breathe. The pain – the _hurt_ – had subsided after a minute or two. Bill Murray had come up, slapped him on the back and nattered on about grabbing a pint after lectures, and John had managed to school his face into something pleasant and delete the message, his fingers fumbling over the keys.

One day at a time. That had been granddad's motto, and granddad had been a WWII veteran. John can survive much more than this.

There are certain memories, of course, that John never, ever goes near. Thoughts that he shies away from, even when he's safely ensconced in his new room, lying in the dark on the stiff, lumpy mattress of his single bed. When he can't sleep — when he feels like he's drowning on air.

Smoke, curling from Sherlock's lips, as beautiful as a black and white photograph.

The unsure, crooked tilt of Sherlock's mouth whenever John managed to surprise him — to make him smile.

The indescribable taste of nicotine and tar mixed in with something tantalisingly sweet, like honey.

How all that pale skin looks, splayed out on a dark leather sofa.

The dusting of hair, darkening towards Sherlock's groin.

How Sherlock gasped, the bow of his mouth falling open, when John — 

_Stop it. Just, stop it. Stop this._

John squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head into his pillow, and breathes.

::

He'd moved out, of course. Really, there had been no other option.

He'd kipped out on Mike's sofa, then Bill's, then Sarah's. He'd been getting desperate enough to call Harry – his stomach sinking as he realised he barely had a hundred quid to last him till the end of term – when Mycroft appeared.

John had never quite known where he stood with Mycroft. He'd felt like they were allies, for a while. Two soldiers battling in the world’s most futile war – the struggle for Sherlock's wellbeing. He had even begun to _like_ Mycroft – the way he smiled with his eyebrows, not his eyes; the condescending tone he used when he was feeling fond but didn't want Sherlock to guess; even the melodramatic flourish of his umbrella, tapping against their floorboards.  

John had never anticipated how the sight of Mycroft could knock all the air from his lungs, and feel so much like defeat.

He can hardly remember their conversation now, but he remembers Mycroft's offhand suggestion of a room in student halls – _last minute drop-out, run away to Brunei to study orangutans in the Borneo rainforest, the room's already paid for, of course_ – and the crushing sensation in his chest when he'd acquiesced.

Mycroft hadn't said a word about Sherlock, but his eyebrows seemed to hint that he had taken in John's condition – jeans looser than normal _(too thin)_ , bags under his eyes _(trouble sleeping)_ , missed three spots shaving _(distracted)_ , arm still in its cast – and found him wanting.

John hadn't looked back.

If he did, he might have seen something he never thought would cross Mycroft Holmes' face - something abominably close to regret.

::

Time passes, of course.

Before he knows it, it's been a month, then three months, then six. He throws himself into coursework, and it's serendipitous that he's never been so busy in his life. His coursemates grumble, but he shoulders the additional demands of his degree without a peep of complaint, and tries to ace every test. His professors take notice.

His mates give him flack about being a swot and a brown-noser, but a couple of weekends down at the pub, drinking everyone under the table, puts paid to that nonsense. Looking round at the circle of merry faces — at Mike's shy grin as he leans into a sweet-faced, spectacled brunette, and Bill's ugly mug, bellowing out _You'll Never Walk Alone_ when his beloved team wins a match against Arsenal — John feels... better. He laughs when Bill knocks a pint of beer into Anderson's lap, and giggles with Dimmock when Sally gives a piece of her mind to a geezer who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. He jumps right in when the pub erupts in a brawl, Med students against posh City types who can't take no for an answer, and holds back a paunchy guy in a bespoke suit as Sally knees him in the gonads. He does it with a grin on his face.

It's going on eight months, and John still can't sleep, but it's getting better, _he's_ getting better, when he sees Sherlock again.

::

There's a 24-hour Tesco about a fifteen-minute walk away from John's student halls.

Sometimes, when he's been lying in the dark for hours and feels like he can't breathe, like he's suffocating in the still, stifling air of his dorm room, John pulls on his coat over his pyjamas and grabs his wallet, his keys. The hush of London at three in the morning always calms him, even when it's interrupted by the drunken laughter of students stumbling in after a night out, the trundle of night buses and cars going too fast past the lights, and the ever-present shadows in the alleys, creeping up to him with an offer of mushrooms or smack. London in the early morning is a sloe-eyed creature, shorn of her daylight finery and tourist-friendly veneer. It's London stripped to her underthings after a day spent playing pretend – coolly insouciant, revelling in all her hard edges. John is not immune to her beauty, just as he's never been immune to the allure of dangerous things.

He's standing in the aisle, blearily trying to decide between skimmed and semi-skimmed milk, when he sees that familiar, sloping silhouette. The curl of dark hair over a popped collar. Hands loosely tucked into coat pockets.

He turns, instinctively.

Sherlock looks – much the same. Maybe a pound or two thinner, but it's hard to tell with that coat on. His eyes rove swiftly across supermarket shelves in that calculating, assessing way that means he's thinking at the speed of light, triangulating and cross-referencing, effortlessly drawing maps of constellations amidst a myriad of data points where John can only see stars. John's breath stills in his chest.

Of all the places to run into his ex, it had to be at a Tesco's when he's wearing his bloody pyjamas. At three in the fucking morning.

Sherlock hasn't seen him – John's half-hidden behind a six-foot tall billboard of a new pomegranate yoghurt drink. John face feels flushed – he feels like all his carefully filed memories have been upended in his face, _the way Sherlock tucks his cold feet into the gap between John's thighs, making him yelp; the sound Sherlock makes when John nips that spot on his neck, right where his mole is; the way Sherlock says “John” when_ –

“John.”

John's eyes fly upwards, meeting that unforgettable grey-blue stare, like looking straight into the London sky. Light besmirched by clouds. He'd always loved that colour.

For a moment, they do nothing but look at each other.

Now that John can see his face, the changes are more evident. The creases around Sherlock's eyes seem that little bit deeper, like Sherlock's been squinting down his microscope without taking a breather. His scarf – that soft, ratty blue curl of cloth – hangs a little more loosely round his neck; he's definitely lost a bit of weight. Probably taking advantage of the fact that John's no longer around, nagging him to eat at regular intervals.

John winces, reflexively.

Sherlock's eyes shutter. His face, never an open book in the first place, goes carefully blank.

To John's surprise, Sherlock breaks first. His eyes lower to his feet, _still the same pair of poncy Italian loafers Mycroft gave him last Christmas_ – but he doesn't move away. He just stands there, staring at the floor like a statue in a supermarket aisle. Of all the times John had wished Sherlock could be more susceptible to social norms, he never thought it’d happen like this - Sherlock feeling the awkwardness of coming face-to-face with an ex-boyfriend, post-breakup.

The sheer unexpectedness of it freezes John in place. He hesitates a moment, his thoughts roaring through his head, but it's apparently long enough for Sherlock to reach some conclusion in that idiotic, genius mind of his. Sherlock turns, his coat sweeping around him in a way that makes John's chest ache, and he's already striding towards the exit when John catches up to him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock – wait.”

John reaches a hand out to grab Sherlock by the shoulder, but remembers a hair's-breadth before his fingers make contact. _He's not yours to touch. Not anymore._

He looks up into Sherlock's face. Every angle is painfully familiar, and coldly inscrutable. They're right by the exit; the checkout girl is peering at them interestedly over her copy of _Heat_ magazine.

“I – I just wanted to say.” John clears his throat, forcing the words through his mouth. “It's – good to see you. You look – good. I mean... well. You look well.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth curls imperceptibly upwards.

“I just wanted you to know that—” _Christ, why am I still babbling?_ “That – we were friends before everything, all of it. And – I'll always appreciate it.” A deep breath. John closes his eyes. “You were – the best friend I ever had.”

Sherlock's eyes seem more blue than grey, when John finally finds the wherewithal to open his. Though his expression hasn't changed, though he hasn't miraculously turned back into the Sherlock John knew – there's a hint of softness now, in the line of his jaw, of his mouth.

“Articulate as ever, John.”

That deep baritone – hearing it again is like a shock of adrenaline. Perversely, it makes John want to giggle. To take a deep breath and _breathe._

“There's only room for one genius in this supermarket.”

It's astoundingly easy to smile at Sherlock. Underneath it all – all the _rubbish_ they'd gone through together, John can't help but feel a pang of affection. He'd loved this boy once; maybe – _god forbid_ – he loves him still. All he knows is that it's frightening how much he wants to make Sherlock smile again.

“Well.” John dips his head, nodding towards his own shopping basket, with its three lone items – celery, beans and cherry jam, “I won't keep you. I know how busy you – you usually are.”

The silence stretches its way back to awkward, and John decides enough's enough. He tugs a rueful hand through his hair. “I’ll – just leave you to it then.”

John makes himself walk away, feeling Sherlock's gaze on him with every step.

He doesn't look back.

::

The next time John sees Sherlock is barely a week later.

He'd taken too much time in the lab, fiddling with his molecular cell virology study, and now he's ten minutes late to start his shift at the UCL library. Ms Bowen, the head librarian, is horribly cantankerous; John could do without getting on her bad side, not when he still feels like he's twenty quid away from selling the _Big Issue_ or – worse – begging Harry for money. He's rushing down Gower Street, his satchel bouncing against his back, when the first fat plops of rain make themselves known.

The rain's just starting to gather momentum – _bollocks, is that a rumble of thunder_ – when John runs smack into a familiar tall, slim figure. They both take a tumble onto wet asphalt, John's trainers skidding out from under him.

John winces at the abrasions on his palms. Brilliant, his jeans are soaked through; this is his last clean pair. He gets up shakily, bracing his hands on his knees. “Christ, are you alright – Sherlock?”

“John?”

Sherlock's hair is bedraggled, sticking in damp tendrils to his forehead. It's really coming down cats and dogs now. His skin looks pale; his eyes sear into John's. John can't recall when he last saw Sherlock look so completely surprised.

“Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock nods his head jerkily. John helps him to his feet, his heart thudding in his chest as he touches Sherlock's arm, pulling him up. He can't quite stifle his impulse to check Sherlock over, noting that Sherlock's arm feels bonier than it used to, even through the heavy wool of his coat. He brushes ineffectually at the dirt marring Sherlock's white shirt, already turning translucent from the rain, before he remembers.

_Christ._

His face flushes. He curls his fingers into his palm.

Sherlock's still looking at him as John turns away, gathering the soggy books that've spilled out onto the pavement. Of course Sherlock doesn't help, the over-entitled bugger.

“Right. I'm – sorry about that.” Good God, when will this stop being awkward? John avoids Sherlock's eyes as he slings his satchel across his shoulder. Fuck, he must be at least twenty minutes late now. “Erm – have a good day.”

_Have a good day?_ John resists the urge to smack his head against the pavement.

John's nearly five metres away, avoiding Sherlock's gaze and willing his face to stop its imitation of a tomato, when he hears Sherlock's response over the patter of rain.

“See you around, John.”

::

After that, it seems like John sees Sherlock everywhere.

He's not an idiot – lord knows Sherlock wouldn't have put up with him for a week, let alone eighteen months, if his mental faculties hadn't been somewhat up to scratch – but he still can't fathom what reason Sherlock could possibly have for seeking him out, after everything that's happened. And it's not like they ever actually _talk_ , in any case.

Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Sherlock must have stopped avoiding him deliberately, that's all. They've survived the first shock of seeing each other again; Sherlock must have decided it's no longer worth the space on his hard drive to abstain from the places John frequents. It's not an unlikely conclusion to come to – they do attend the same university, although Sherlock's already doing his PhD and John's still plodding through his third year in Medicine. The fact that Sherlock's a year younger than John, and already has a First in Chemistry from Cambridge under his belt, before they kicked him out – is neither here nor there.

He sees Sherlock at the student union, flicking through some books on the university's history. He catches Sherlock nibbling on a muffin in Costa in the basement of Waterstones, gazing intensely at – _Christ, are those blood stains? What on earth?_ Sherlock striding through the university Quad, his coat flaring after him, hands in his pockets. Sherlock waiting for a bus on Tottenham Court Road.

Every time they run across each other, John feels the shock of it like a lance through his chest. Instead of the memories growing fainter with time, they seem to curl around him like smoke escaping from a hatch, solidifying with every sighting. _Sherlock crawling into bed in the early morning after finishing one of his experiments, throwing his arm around John's chest and linking their fingers under the covers. How, when he's in a sulk, he curls up in a ball on the leather sofa, cocooned in his favourite blue bathrobe, but still lifts his face for a kiss. The sound of his violin - liltingly, achingly beautiful, played with that small quirk of his lips –_

Once, heart-stoppingly, he thinks he sees Sherlock in a club, just before closing time, when the girl he's been half-heartedly dancing with finally gives up and rejoins her mates. He's just turned away from the bar, gulping down water to wash the taste of synthetic lip balm from his mouth, when he sees one dark, curly head leaning into another. Jaws moving in synch, caught in a passionate kiss.

He feels like he's turned to stone. Light-headed. Blood rushes in his ears.

It's not Sherlock, of course. It turns out to be that git from Geography, snogging the tonsils off some girl John vaguely remembers seeing in his halls. But from a distance – _Christ. Buggering, fucking Christ._

John escapes to the alley outside the club, crouching down amongst the discarded cigarette ends, studiously not thinking about the inevitable smell of piss and weed. He cradles his head in his hands, breathing through his nose.

_I need to get over him._

It's unfair - incredibly, fucking unfair - how that thought makes him feel like his heart's breaking, all over again.

::


	2. Chapter 2

::

Mike sets them up.

It's ironic, in a way John doesn't care to examine too closely, because Mike had also been the one to point out the student housing advert two years ago. The one that'd said – _I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Apply at your own peril. Don't waste my time._ The last _don't_ had been underlined and then circled in thick black marker – John had lifted his eyebrows when he'd first seen it, caught between laughter and a budding sense of fascination.

He'd never stopped being awestruck by Sherlock. Maybe that had been part of the problem.

John grimaces at himself in the mirror as he pulls on his only smart blazer. He even makes a passing attempt to style his hair – Bill swears by this Brylcreem gunk. His mates are over the moon about him wanting to date again; Sarah had even tried to bring him shopping, though he'd put his foot down at anything that would have dipped into his savings. He's in the black now, finally, and aims to stay that way.

Mary's lovely. John's amazed she hasn't been snapped up yet by some enterprising bloke. Her face glows in the candlelight of the quiet Vietnamese restaurant that she'd chosen, her eyes crinkling with mischief as she delivers dirty jokes in a deadpan voice that has John in stitches. Her hand feels tiny in John's own as they stroll past Chinatown and Soho, admiring the red lanterns strewn along Gerrard Street like giant pomegranate seeds, glistening against the night sky. It's an odd novelty, tipping his head downwards to look at someone he's walking next to, instead of looking up. Something in John's chest twinges at the thought.

He walks her all the way back to her flatshare, just off Russell Square. He gets the feeling that he could've gotten away with a kiss, if he'd wanted to, but he feels inexplicably hesitant. He gives her a gentlemanly peck on the cheek instead, smiling, promising to text. Her perfume is a warm waft of something sweetly floral, like tuberose and spice, when she envelops him in a hug, whispering a final risqué punchline in his ear.

He blushes, and forces himself to stay still, to wait until he hears the key turn in the lock and the latch come on, before he starts off again, one foot after the other.

His steps are meandering. John doesn't think too carefully about where he's going. He breathes in the scents of London at night, _traffic fumes and takeaway and that exotic sweet-saltiness, like fresh jonquils and decay and river water,_ and tries to see the city anew; tries not to see the ghost of Sherlock lurking in every corner, his mercury eyes alight, rushing hither-tither on the trail of one of his experiments, as dazzling as a comet with John hapless to do anything but trail in his wake. The city of _SherlockandJohn_ – her streets, her pulse as familiar to Sherlock as the rhythms of his own body, her blood thudding under his skin.

He's not surprised, not really, when he ends up on Baker Street. There's something hushed about the night – it's just past one, he's been walking in circles for hours – and John feels suddenly, fiercely exhausted. He thinks he hears the fading strains of a violin.

John closes his eyes, leaning against the dark storefront of Speedy's Cafe.

It's been almost a year.

He shouldn't still feel this way.

John wants nothing more than to slide down and bury his head in the crook of his arms. He wants to shut his eyes until this godforsaken ache in his chest subsides. _Christ._

The door to 221B creaks open, and John startles. He looks up, straight into Sherlock's face. The light from a nearby streetlamp strikes Sherlock’s cheekbones at a slant, sharpening them in stark relief.

For a moment, John wonders whether he's dreaming. Sherlock's wearing his blue bathrobe and pyjama bottoms. The sight is so familiar that John hunches over, his body instinctively warding off a blow. Sherlock's bare-chested; his nipples – those innocuous, dusky peaks – already tightening in the cold London air.

John stutters. He's pretty sure the tips of his ears turn red before he drags his gaze away from Sherlock's chest.

“John?”

“God. Shit, bugger, _fuck._ ” John scrambles to his feet. “Sorry, I'm sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tilts his head. His eyes are assessing, stripping John to the bone in one cool sweep – up, then down. John feels completely and utterly wretched.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't be here. I don't know what I was thinking. I just started walking… I…” _Christ, why can't I stop talking?_ “I’ll just be on my way.”

John gapes when, instead of slamming the door in his face, Sherlock steps closer. He's barefoot, the idiotic git. Barefoot and trying to step unto a London pavement – possibly the most unsanitary surface anywhere in the world.

“Sherlock – stop. What are you doing? Just – stop there, all right.”

Unthinkingly, John takes a step forward to place a hand on Sherlock's chest, stopping him from crossing the threshold. Just like that, they're skin-to-skin, within the safety of Baker Street for the first time since – since that day. John's struck speechless. Sherlock seems frozen in place, staring at John's palm. John can feel his heartbeat.

_Oh my fucking lord._

John snatches his hand away. He resists the urge to pull his hair out by the roots.

_It's official. I'm legitimately going insane._

Sherlock's mouth quirks up. They're still far too close to each other – close enough that John can see the shadows cast by Sherlock's eyelashes.

“Would you like to come up?”

John can't bring himself to say no.

::

Baker Street looks almost exactly the same.

It's still a bloody tip, of course. Sherlock's beloved chemistry set is still spread out all over the kitchen table. The wallpaper is still ghastly. Even Sherlock's skull is in the same spot on the mantelpiece, jauntily tilted so that it faces Sherlock's armchair. John wonders whether Sherlock has gone back to talking to his skull now that John's gone; wonders whether Sherlock considers the skull an improvement.

John has to physically stop himself from ducking into the kitchen and setting the kettle to boil - the habit is so deeply ingrained under his skin.

Instead, he lingers uncertainly in the doorway. Coming up is starting to feel less and less like a good decision.

Sherlock's still watching him, cataloguing every tic and facial movement. It feels like being in the sun after endless dreary, damp weather – like the layers of John's everyday life, of _dullness_ , are being scorched away by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze.

John breaks their eye contact, taking in the rest of the flat.

He'd expected – he doesn't know. More change, perhaps? Definitely more of Irene's things around – though most of her stuff would probably still be at Cambridge. He didn't think she'd have stood for Sherlock's mess, though. Thought she'd put her foot down, and not let Sherlock walk all over her, like John had.

John closes his eyes.

Sherlock's gone to stand over by the window. There's a curious energy in his movements, almost as if he's nervous.

“How was your date?”

John's eyes snap back to Sherlock's.

“My date?”

“You've been out, of course.” Sherlock waves a hand. “You've styled your hair. The longer length suits you, it softens your jaw. You've bought new shoes – not expensive ones, but dressier than your usual trainers. You wouldn't have chosen them yourself – you must've had help. Probably from that ragtag bunch of Medics you call your friends. You're wearing your favourite blazer, the one you wore for our first year anniversary, when you took me to see the Royal Philharmonic at Albert Hall. New hairstyle, new shoes, smarter clothing than your usual – you've been on a date.”

John feels breathless, like someone's just landed a punch to his abdomen.

“I— it—“ John clears his throat, his voice has gone all husky. “The date was – fine. She was very nice.”

Something odd flickers across Sherlock's face; his eyes darken from light blue to a darker shade, like a shadow passing underwater. John's never really been able to read him.

John takes a step towards his old chair. Something warm ripples through his chest when he notices that Sherlock's kept the Union Jack pillow – an impulse purchase from when they'd gone on a day-trip to Brighton last Easter. Sherlock had wanted to study the differences between London and Sussex mud, and John had wanted to eat fish and chips by the beach. It had been a lovely day that ended with lots of snogging by the seaside and far fewer mud samples than Sherlock had planned for.

“And – yourself?” John forces the words past his throat. “How's – Irene? She's finishing up at Cambridge this year, isn't she?”

“Irene?” Sherlock turns fully from the window, facing John. “I – presume she's fine. Why do you ask?”

John tries to smile. He assumes it looks as sickly as it feels. “It's – polite, isn't it. I–“ John takes a deep breath. “I’d like to know you're doing well. That – both of you are.”

There's a furrow between Sherlock's eyebrows. That massive brain must be kicking into gear. New data, all of this – how to make small-talk with your ex.

“We're both – well.” The words sound strangely uncertain, coming from Sherlock's mouth.

“Great. That's wonderful. Stellar.” _Oh my god._ John forces himself to shut up. He ignores the hollow sensation that seems to be spreading through his stomach.

_Christ, what am I doing here._

“Sherlock, I think—” 

“John, what—”

They both stutter to a halt, looking at each other. John feels winded all over again, seeing Sherlock limned in the glow of the streetlamps filtering through the windows. _Sherlock, in Baker Street_. Somehow, reality far surpasses his memories - he'd forgotten the exact shade of Sherlock's skin, that silken, touchable cream overlaying the slenderness of his torso. The damning beauty of Sherlock’s profile - the line of his neck curving into his jaw; the lush, vulnerable dip of his mouth; the rise of those bloody cheekbones.

“I think I'd better go.”

Sherlock doesn't say a word. A new light has come into his eyes – something curiously bright. He looks like he's just run a long and complex experiment, and can now lay the results out, unfolding each step along the chain of cause and effect in perfect sequence.

“It's – it's good to see you.” John forces himself to turn away, to take a step from Sherlock. It's harder than he expected. He feels like something – some hook – has snagged on the remnants of his heart and that every step away is tearing a deeper rend through his chest.

He almost makes it to the door when he hears it.

“John.”

Throughout their eighteen months together, John has heard Sherlock say his name in countless ways. There's the bland, almost dismissive _Pass me my phone, John_. The sulky and irate _Bored! I'm bored, John. Do something interesting._ The wheedling, sweetly demanding _Where's my cup of tea, John,_ similar but not quite the same as the low-toned _John_ Sherlock uses when he's feeling affectionate, asking for attention, fishing for a kiss – that one's quieter, breathier, and makes John want to cup his face and snog him senseless.

This one's different.

It makes John think of those late nights and early mornings in bed, the _John_ Sherlock uses when John pushes into him, nudging past the rim of his hole with his cock. When they're so close they're inseparable, one entity breathing and rocking together, when John feels so immersed in Sherlock - so transcendently _happy_ – that he could cry. When Sherlock arches his back, losing every single thought in that superbrain of his and _John_ is the only word he remembers.

John's step falters.

Sherlock comes towards John, his blue bathrobe whipping behind him. Before John has time to take another breath, Sherlock's kissing him.

::


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I'm working on the next chapter - there's a happy ending, I swear!
> 
> I hope it's evident, but just in case - please note that this chapter takes place in a flashback sequence before Chapters 1 and 2.

::

What John remembers most about that month is rain.

Fat, unrelenting lashes of rain, turning into magnified tear tracks as they slip down the windows of 221B, and the rumble of thunder making the lampshades rattle. At night, the rain dies down to a susurration, seeping into the shadows of their bedroom - _can it still be called_ _their bedroom if Sherlock’s not there?_ \- a gentle accompaniment to John’s restless shifting, his head on Sherlock’s pillow, unused to the silence of Baker Street without Sherlock in it.

Like most things with Sherlock, it’d started with a text.

_Off to Cambridge to see a friend. Will be there for a month. Drip 20ml of iodine into the fingers in the crisper every 4 days. - SH_

He’d thought it was a joke, at first. Sherlock - away for a month? To see a _friend?_ Throughout their relationship, he’d heard Sherlock mention Cambridge only twice - once to reminisce about its better equipped laboratories, and another when he’d implied, in a roundabout way, that he’d like to take John punting on the Cam. For science, naturally. _To assess the ideal distribution of the weight of two people and the rest period between strokes that would enable a punt to glide easily over shallow river water… Stop smiling at me, John. Stop it. Stop - that tickles! John!_

Sherlock had never mentioned any friends. John hadn’t thought he’d had any - something he’d immediately, shamefacedly berated himself for. 

Sherlock holds his cards close to his chest - John knows that, and loves him for it. They don’t need to say the words to prove what they are to each other. Just because they’ve been dating for over a year doesn’t mean John needs to know every aspect of Sherlock’s life. Sherlock is astonishingly, mind-blowingly brilliant, gifted with a genius that humbles John every time he thinks deeply about it - is it so surprising that someone at Cambridge appreciates him as well?

After a week, the regularity of Sherlock’s texts drops off. Silly messages, like cyphers clueing John in on the mystery of Sherlock’s days - ‘ _Every disguise is a self-portrait, John’…_ ‘ _Just Googled whip hand. Fascinating insight into human depravity’_ \- gradually trickle down from eight times a day, to four, to two… to one every other day.

John tries not to take it to heart. Sherlock is easily distracted. He’d seemed tied up in some experiment with his friend - _friends? more than one, maybe? -_ and John’s confident enough in their relationship not to begrudge Sherlock enjoying himself. Sherlock had sounded interested, engaged. It makes John smile, cocooned in the dimness of their bedroom, thinking of Sherlock’s familiar ‘ _I’m in the middle of an experiment, go away John’_ face, listening to the soft drizzle of rain in the murky light of dawn.

Then - one day, John receives a text from an unknown number.

_So. You’re John._

_Who’s this? JW_

_Sherlock’s ‘boyfriend’. How adorable._

John clenches his fingers in a fist. Around him, he can hear the familiar noises of a lecture hall emptying, but John feels as though he’s been frozen in place.

_Are you the person Sherlock is visiting in Cambridge? JW_

_Visiting. Is that what people call it these days?_

John knows he has a temper. Like a perchlorate oxidizer, his temper flares suddenly, explosively - a conflagration that dies as quickly as it begins, usually leaving him slightly sick to his stomach. It reminds him of Dad.

_Who are you? JW_

Toggling back to the text menu, John opens another screen.

_Sherlock, are you okay? Text me when you get this. JW_

His phone pings. John looks at the unknown number on his screen, his stomach tying itself in knots.

_I bet your ‘boyfriend’ is an amazing fuck. I can’t shut him up._

Hazily, John is aware that Mike is saying something to him - they need to get to the next seminar, Professor Kwan is pretty strict about tardiness - but everything recedes beneath the overly loud thumping of his heart.

There’s a constriction in his chest. For an absurd moment, John wonders if an elephant has materialized in the room and is sitting on him.

His phone pings again. It’s Sherlock.

_Stop bothering me, John. I’m busy. - SH_

John suddenly feels like he can’t breathe.

::

Cambridge is greener than John expects. The town is swathed in the russet hues of sunset, its rolling lawns and courtyards criss-crossed by the elongated shadows of ancient elms and cherry trees.

John can’t remember a single thing about the train ride from London. He can’t even recall what he’d said to Mike and Bill - something about Sherlock, and _I need to see him_ , probably. He wonders what he must have looked like - Sarah had kept asking if he felt alright.

His two further messages to Sherlock had gone unanswered. 

He knows where Sherlock is staying - Sherlock had made him forward a parcel that had arrived in Baker Street last week. The address leads him to one of the colleges along the river. He stops a few students, asking for directions to Cripps Court. 

He doesn’t make it all the way there - something, some deeply-held instinct, makes John look up from his conversation with a flustered first year, and he catches a glimpse of a large, fine-boned hand, cupped around someone else’s cheek. An achingly familiar curly head, forehead-to-forehead with someone equally dark-haired, in a corner of a courtyard lit by lingering rays of sunset.

John squeezes his eyes shut.

For a moment, the world stays the same - it’s still a world he knows.

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock - _his Sherlock_ \- is wrapped around the girl, his body curled around hers, and they’re laughing, heads tilted towards each other. John’s never heard that particular laugh from Sherlock before - it’s low, seductive, almost predatory; the auditory equivalent of Sherlock’s hand, which is flirting with the hem of the girl’s skirt, caressing her thigh in short, circular strokes.

“Sherlock.” The word leaves him, nearly soundless. Somehow, he’s less than five steps away, close enough to see the auburn glints in the strands loosely coiled against Sherlock’s nape.

Sherlock doesn’t hear him, but the girl does. Her blue eyes widen as they catch sight of John. Her arms, loosely clasped around Sherlock’s neck, fall away.

Sherlock turns, his brow slightly furrowed, and then - in a split second that breaks John’s heart - his face brightens with delight. “John!”

There’s a faint halo of red around Sherlock’s mouth, the exact colour of the girl’s lipstick.

“Why did you leave London? What are you doing here?” It’s the first time in a month that John’s heard that voice, and he clenches his fists against the urge to sink to his knees.

“Who — who is this?”

“Oh! Irene. We partnered for my last project before I left.” The happiness fades, in degrees, from Sherlock’s face. After a beat of silence, he bites his lower lip, one of his few nervous tells. “She’s quite clever at Chemistry.”

John feels his face twist in a smile. “I’ll bet she is.”

“John—” Sherlock’s eyes widen, his irises a clear, unearthly blue-green. “Why do you look—” 

John cuts him off. “And what are you doing with her, here in Cambridge? Something that you need…” John breathes, his voice going softer, lower, “a whole month to do?”

Irene steps forward. From the corner of his eye, John sees her open her mouth, and he slams his fist against the brick wall. 

“SHUT UP.” 

The crowd has silenced around them - groups of ones and twos, clutching their satchels and books, stunned into stillness. It’s getting dark; John can feel the wind picking up.

“John—” Sherlock’s voice has fallen to a whisper. “Your hand is bleeding.”

“Tell me, Sherlock.” John almost can’t bear to look at him, at the panic dawning on Sherlock’s face. He blinks his eyes, swallowing against the tightness of his throat. “Go on.”

“It’s just an experiment, John.” Sherlock’s mouth trembles, uncertain, before falling into one of his reflexive smiles; the tiny, irrepressible side-quirk he uses when he wants John to go along with some reckless, harebrained scheme. _Don’t be dull, John._

John can’t help it - he laughs. 

“Everything’s an experiment to you, isn’t it? You fucking _machine_.”

“John, please—” Sherlock takes a step towards him, raises a hand as if to touch him, and John can’t bear it. He can’t bear this. There’s a fury swelling in him, a fury that will erupt on Sherlock if John touches him, and John can’t bear the thought of it. He swings around, avoiding Sherlock completely, and buries his fist in the wall. He hears a crunching sound, something that he instinctively knows is _not good, a bit not good._ He slams his knuckles against brick — again, and again.

_“_ Just — go.” John doesn’t recognize his voice. It’s ragged, interwoven with heaving breaths, like sobs. “Go, Sherlock.”

The last thing he remembers about that day is Sherlock’s face, and the fractured, uncomprehending, agonized disbelief on it, like a heart cracked wide open. 

::


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised a happy ending, didn't I? :)
> 
> This picks up right after the end of Chapter 2.

::

Sherlock tastes exactly like John remembers - like smoke, and something achingly, elusively sweet. There’s an underlying hint of darkness, like the bitterness of tar and the 70% chocolate he likes to sneak bites of in the middle of the night.

John feels something prickle behind his eyelids. 

Sherlock pulls off John’s blazer, his palms rising to cradle John’s face, his thumbs stroking once, twice across the surface of John’s cheeks. John’s back hits the wall - he can feel the raised curlicues of their wallpaper even through his shirt and jumper as Sherlock presses in, his mouth moving against John’s with devastating familiarity.

John feels like he’s drowning. He reaches up and sinks his hands in Sherlock’s hair, his fingers twisting in the softness of Sherlock’s curls. The feel of it - the heart-stopping vertigo of having Sherlock within reach again - makes him groan, a deep rumble muffled against Sherlock’s mouth as he takes that ridiculous lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it to the rhythm of his thudding pulse. It’s as tender and pillowy as John remembers, and John swipes his tongue against it, flattening and stroking and nibbling on it until Sherlock _moans_ , sinking his entire weight against John like his knees can no longer hold him up. John feels a surge of heat low in his abdomen as Sherlock crowds him in, insinuating his thigh in between John’s own, as they pant against each other, breaths layered and interspersed with licks, and bites, and nuzzles, nearly ripping the wallpaper as they shove against it with the force of their kiss.

_Jesus motherfucking buggering Christ._

_“_ Stop.”

John breaks away, using his grip on Sherlock’s head to make him stay still. His mouth is wet; he can’t get enough air. He feels Sherlock duck his head, nuzzling his forehead against John’s cheek. “Sherlock — _stop.”_

Sherlock’s eyes - dilated pupils surrounded by that unforgettable blue-green, as lovely and unknowable as the turquoise side of the moon - make John’s heart stutter.

“People…” John swallows against the tightness in his throat, against the taste of Sherlock on his tongue, “people are fragile, Sherlock. You have to be careful with them, their feelings.” He slides his hand down the back of Sherlock’s head, cupping the long, sinuous curve of his nape. “You can’t do this to Irene.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. _“John—”_

“No. Let me say this — just once, Sherlock.” The silk of Sherlock’s bathrobe crumples beneath his fingers as John exhales, a long tidal breath that dissipates into something resembling a laugh. “I—I kind of always knew, in the back of my mind, you know? That one day you’d decide you’d had enough. I mean—” John swallows again, shifting against the wall, his head following the curve of Sherlock’s profile until he’s pressing each word against the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, where Sherlock’s pulse is beating, rabbit-fast, “I’m completely ordinary. Why would someone — someone as _brilliant_ as you stay with John Watson? It’s — it’s just absurd.” 

Gently, John presses a closed-mouth kiss against the dip of Sherlock’s clavicle. “I loved you — so much. We had a blast together. I don’t—“ he clears his throat, swiping his thumb across Sherlock’s cheek, “I don’t blame you.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is raw, as if it’s been ripped from his throat. “John, shut up.”

“I mean—”

“ _No._ ” Sherlock’s fingernails dig into the flesh of John’s biceps. He grips John like he’s hanging onto a lifeline. “You’re wrong - you’re… inexcusably wrong. How could you even think — I’m not _with_ Irene. I never was.”

John shakes his head. “You don’t need to—“

“Listen to me, John.” Sherlock slides down onto the floor, until he’s on his knees. He clutches John’s hips, burying his face in John’s stomach. “Please, _please_ , John. _Please listen to me._ ”

Sherlock’s breaths - warm, damp, staccato puffs of air - ripple the surface of John’s jumper with their force.

“Irene… her family’s landed gentry. They’re traditional; conservative. She doesn’t come into her own money until her next birthday. Her father can still change the endowment and until then, she can’t put a foot wrong.”

Sherlock swallows; John can feel his throat bobbing as his fingers tighten, curling fiercely into John’s jumper. “Irene’s father… he’d never approve if he knew she’s a lesbian. She had to be careful, with her relationships. She - she envied me, that I could be…” his voice breaks, “I could be with you… and that my family - my parents, even Mycroft - never said a word about it. Her family didn’t want to understand that she was different.”

John slowly lowers himself, sliding his body down within the tight circle of Sherlock’s arms, until he’s eye-level with Sherlock again. John cradles the undersides of his cheeks, hardly daring to blink as Sherlock’s red-rimmed eyes sear into his.

“She said her father had become suspicious. Her girlfriend - Kate - they hadn’t been discreet enough. There were rumours… her parents’ friends have children at Cambridge - it’s an enormous cesspool of gossip. She needed plausible deniability. She knows - she knows what I like. Challenges, experiments. She said we could pretend to be a couple in public; that it could be a new experiment, testing whether people would believe I was her boyfriend, for a month. Long enough for the rumours about Kate to die down.”

“She said—” John dips his head, bumping their foreheads together, breathing the words into Sherlock’s mouth, “she implied… that she was fucking you.” 

Sherlock makes a soft, torn sound. 

“She - likes games. She has a cruel sense of humour. Other than you, people who tolerate me often do. She was teasing me. I couldn’t—” Sherlock closes his eyes, “I couldn’t shut up about you.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock.” 

John can’t help himself - he kisses the corner of Sherlock’s eyelids, kissing away the dampness on Sherlock’s eyelashes in small, desperate sips that slowly migrate across the gorgeous topography of Sherlock’s face. 

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me? Why - why do you _never_ tell me these things…”

Sherlock buries his face in the underside of John’s cheek. “Please, John.” Their legs are a hopeless tangle, and John aches to get closer, to breathe every particle of Sherlock in. “Please forgive me… for all the hurt that I caused you.”

John whispers his words into Sherlock’s hair. “You’ve been… an utter cock, you know that.” He dots kisses down Sherlock’s forehead, nudging at the tip of Sherlock’s nose. 

“I need you. I’m - lost without you.” Sherlock clutches at John’s shoulders, his long fingers refusing to let go. “I’ve even taken to stalking you. I followed you everywhere. You never observed. I couldn’t - I couldn’t figure out whether you were still angry with me. Until that night at Tesco.”

John laughs, his breaths huffing against the sharpness of Sherlock’s jawline, making him shiver. 

“I wondered what you were doing at a Tesco in Camden, when you live in Baker Street.”

John mouths slow kisses along Sherlock’s neck, licking the glorious arch of his clavicle, moving down the expanse of his chest to lave his tongue roughly, teasingly against Sherlock’s tightening nipples. Sherlock keens, jerking his head backwards in an instinctive, wanton arc, letting his legs fall apart so that John can settle more comfortably between his raised knees.

“You’re the most… amazing person I’ve ever known,” John breathes, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s, which have turned a pure, cloudless blue, “but if we’re going to do this, together,” John pinches Sherlock’s nipples between his fingers, making them darken from blush pink to red, tonguing one, then the other until Sherlock cries out - a long, breathless wail, his hands combing restlessly through the short hairs on John’s head, “You’re going to have to promise me something. You can’t go around kissing other people, Sherlock. It’s not on. It drives me,” John drags himself up Sherlock’s body, slipping his tongue deep into Sherlock’s mouth, “absolutely… batshit… insane.”

“ _John._ ” 

John will never tire of hearing Sherlock say his name.

“Promise me, genius. Promise me, and I’ll forgive you.” 

John pulls Sherlock closer to him, until their chests are a hairsbreadth apart. Sherlock tugs impatiently at the hem of John’s jumper, his pupils blown, his mouth swollen from kissing. He looks - devastating. He looks irrevocably, inexorably _John’s_ , backlit by the fire in the grate, his pale skin flushed and gleaming - like the deepest, fondest wish of John’s heart, spread out for him, sheltered within the sanctity of Baker Street.

Sherlock’s mouth tugs up at one corner, curling up in a small, heart-wrenchingly familiar smirk - the one only John gets to see. 

“I promise… if you promise to be my John Watson again.”

John laughs, a laugh that rises from the centre of his chest and dissolves in helpless giggles, and nips at his favorite spot - the outrageous bow of Sherlock’s philtrum - until Sherlock’s gasping.

“You’re an idiot.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are shining. 

“I’ve always been your John Watson.”

::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a fluffy little epilogue thing... where Sherlock and John do couple-y, university-type stuff. Watch this space!
> 
> Small fun fact: If anyone's wondering where the title came from, it's actually from the song _A Thousand Years_ , and specifically this amazing Johnlock fanvid (which made me cry buckets...GOD)
> 
> Deductism's Alone on the Water: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEA-B1QNplQ

**Author's Note:**

> Do leave a comment if you enjoyed reading! I live for feedback :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover - How to be brave](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873161) by [AlessNox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox)




End file.
